Circumstance
by Raquedan
Summary: A series of run-ins with Max and White. MW undertones. Now complete...you're all going to hate me.
1. chapter 1

There's a problem with one of the patrols, Max is busy and annoyed, and so she sends Alec to check it out. He comes back four hours later with a cut on one cheekbone, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

"What?" Max doesn't really care, but if she doesn't ask he'll just drop hints and hang around bothering her until she does.

Alec grins, which has to be painful, and says, "I've got White."

The news is almost worth listening to him congratulate himself for the next ten minutes. Eventually he gets around to explaining; how the patrol he went to check on ran into White and several familiars, how a freak accident involving a slippery sidewalk and a signpost left White unconscious. Alec doesn't even try to take credit for it; he's laughing too hard. Nobody really cares how it came about; they have White: they win this round.

Max isn't sure what to do with him, so she decides to ignore him. She has him put under guard in a building she never visits: she doesn't want to have to look at him.

But she can't forget that he's there. He keeps popping up in her mind at the most inopportune moments. She can't get him out of her head, even locked up he's still driving her crazy.

Four days after Alec brought him in, Max goes down to the basement storage where they've been keeping him. The current guard is an X-6 named Jazz, he smiles in greeting when she comes around the corner.

"Hey, boss." His face is bright and eager. He's just a kid.

"Hey, Jazz," she says, "sorry you drew this duty."

"Oh, that's alright, ma'am-Max." He fumbles a little but remembers her dislike of being called "ma'am" just in time. "It's not hard; he doesn't really do much."

Despite herself, Max is curious.

"What does he do?"

Jazz shrugs, "Doesn't sleep, paces sometimes, works out, mostly."

"Works out?" She's picturing White in his three hundred dollar suits, the image doesn't quite compute.

"Yes ma'-Max. All the time."

For some reason this makes her opinion of White rise a little, but she's not sure why, and she shoves it into the back of her mind.

"I'm gonna talk to him for a minute."

"Yes, Max. Uhh, should I step away?"

Max smiles at him, "Want a lunch break, soldier?"

Her smile broadens when he blushes, "Go get something to eat, I can handle him."

If only, she thinks.

* * *

White is doing fingertip pull-ups from a pipe near the low ceiling when Max steps into the bare concrete room. It's hot and humid in this building, something to do with a flawed boiler system, and White is shirtless and barefoot. It makes him look less like a federal agent, and more like a person. Without the suit he seems more human.

Without the suit she can see his body. White is slender, but every inch is muscled and toned and there isn't an ounce of fat on him. In spite of her mental protests, Max lets her eyes roam over his corded arms, down over his chiseled shoulders and chest to the very faint line of hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into his…

Max snaps her mind away from that particular train of thought, disgusted with herself.

White must have heard her outside, heard her come in, because when she doesn't say anything for a long moment, he says, without opening his eyes, "Did you want something 452? Or did you just come down for the show?"

"I want lots of things," she snaps at him, feeling defensive and not knowing why. "World peace, decent television service, half an hour of peace and quiet, things like that."

White drops from the pipe and lands lightly on his feet. "Half an hour of peace isn't why you came down here. What is it 452, finally decide what to do with me?" His voice is as caustic and nasty as ever, usually it makes her want to smack him, but now it makes her feel a little calmer.

"You know what I want, White. Are you gonna cooperate, and maybe get outta here in one piece?"

He walks toward her slowly, smirking. The temperature and the workout have left his bare chest shiny with perspiration; it's very distracting.

"You want me to translate you," he says. The smirk is really starting to bother her.

"Well, yeah. If you were covered in runes wouldn't you want to know what they said?" Sarcasm notwithstanding, Max is feeling pretty serious now: the runes have been on her mind a lot, lately.

White shakes his head. "What they say isn't the important part, 452. It's what they signify that you should be worrying about."

"So what do they signify?" Max would never admit it, but he's getting to her, his smirks and cryptic hints and the six-pack definition of his abdomen… she shakes her head sharply, where did that thought come from?

White shakes his head, "Oh no, 452. It's not gonna be that easy." Smiling, he turns his back on her and strolls casually toward the other side of the room.

Max is too shaken by her decidedly strange response to him to pursue the subject. "Fine," she says, "rot here, then."

She turns sharply on her heel and stomps back toward the door. His voice stops her with her hand on the latch.

"452?"

She turns back. White is back in the middle of the room, doing push ups on his knuckles, back straight, shoulders square, his legs crossed at the ankles. The muscles in his back ripple and shift with the rhythmic motion. Max feels her mouth go dry and hates herself for it.

Without looking up he says, "They'll come for me in force, eventually. You don't want that."

She knows this, and it's on the tip of her tongue to say something sharp, but then he switches to diamond push ups with his hands together in front of him, and watching his muscles shift takes her breath away completely. She backs out of the room as quickly as she can get the door open.

* * *

Once out in the hall she notices that Jazz isn't back yet, she can't leave White unguarded, so she waits. She leans against the door, trying not to listen to him breathe, and wonders if she's coming down with something. She makes a mental note to let White go as soon as possible. What the runes say no longer seems very important. She'll tell the others she just wanted to get him away from her.

The truth is she wants him close to her, very close. If she sends him away maybe she'll be able to keep denying it.

Maybe she'll come to her senses.


	2. chapter 2

A/N: I know I said this would be a one-shot…I lied. Deal with it. Reviewers convinced me to continue, that's the kind of power that little button has.

* * *

It's been almost a week, and Max still can't stop thinking about him. She can't forget him, can't forget his voice, or his face, or his body, and it makes her sick. She can't look Logan in the eye, she can't look at herself in the mirror, and she never sleeps. She tried to, tried to bury Ames White in the back of her mind for a couple of hours and forget everything. 

It didn't work.

She woke almost four hours later, panting and sweating and shaking, from a dream so real she swore she could taste his mouth, feel the weight of his body on hers and his hands on her skin. She hasn't slept since.

Terminal City has never been more efficient; lost in her own problems, Max throws herself into her work. She doesn't sleep, and she doesn't eat, and she never stops, and she won't give anyone else a break, either.

Original Cindy comes to talk to her after her fifth fight with Alec in as many hours.

"Boo," she says, her voice tentative, "you alright, girl?"

"I'm fine," Max says shortly, preoccupied. She's found that if she thinks about several things at once, food requirements, and perimeter security, and patrol rosters, and weapons supplies, her mind doesn't have room for White. She can forget him for a few minutes at a time.

Original Cindy isn't convinced.

"Girl, you've been acting real weird since you let tall, dark, and evil run free. You worried he's gonna pull something?"

Max wants to laugh, yes, White's been on her mind, but her friend couldn't be more wrong about the reason.

"It's not that," Max assures her, "it's nothing to do with him."

Original Cindy frowns at her, "I'm not so sure that's true, boo. You sure got something on your mind. Did he say something to get you all worried and confused when you went down there? I know you hate his cryptic shit."

"Other than his usual annoyingly useless hints about the runes, no. It's nothing, don't worry about me." Max wishes she would just go away: it's hard to keep her mind busy and carry on a conversation with her all-too-intuitive friend at the same time. White is starting to slip back into her thoughts. Of course Original Cindy would have to bring him up.

Her friend sighs, "Fine, girl. Don't share your problems. Just remember I'm always here." She turns to walk out of Max's makeshift office, and then turns back.

"And stop taking your frustrations out on Alec. It ain't his fault you're all tied up in knots over something." With that parting wisdom, she leaves Max to her disgusted contemplation of the state of her mind.

White is ruining her life.

That's not really fair, she realizes a moment later. It's not like he came on to her, admittedly he was shirtless, but that was understandable given the temperature. It's not his fault. He's certainly never given her any reason to think of him this way.

It's her fault. Something is horribly wrong with her, maybe she needs therapy.

Maybe she's going into heat again.

That would be inconvenient, but it sure would give a nice explanation of her reaction to White. Her hormones are gearing up to go into overdrive, and she reacted to White because he was a healthy, attractive, genetically superior male in her vicinity. Perfect. There's nothing wrong with her; this is perfectly normal.

A visit to Dr. Crew throws that explanation out.

"Congratulations." He says, brightly, "You pass your regular check up with flying colors. Nothing to worry about."

Max smiles at him, "Doc," she says, after a moment, "am I going into heat anytime soon?"

"Oh no," Dr. Crew shakes his head vigorously, "if you were going into heat anytime this month there would have been greatly increased levels of estrogen in your bloodstream. You've got nothing to worry about."

"Great." Max smiles at him, screaming inwardly. She's got big, big problems.

* * *

A/N: I have no idea where I'm going with this. Suggestions are desperately required. 


	3. chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed with suggestions, please don't stop, I need all the help I can get. Thank you especially to acb (whoever you are); I used one of your suggestions to write this chapter, and I'm using another to write the next. Kala: I love you dearly, but seriously, watch your spelling or I will be forced to look over your shoulder while you review and correct you.

* * *

It's been a week since her run in with White, and Max is slowly going crazy. Trying to focus on enough things at once to forget White is proving to be more difficult everyday. Max ran out of things to keep her busy at her own job a long time ago, at the moment she's sitting in on a perimeter security meeting led by Mole. 

"Alright," he says, authoritatively, "what else is there? Jazz?"

Jazz is the X-6 who was guarding White the day Max went to see him. He's just recently been promoted to perimeter sentry.

"Nothing really to report, sir." His voice is brisk and businesslike; he must have been very happy as a soldier, Max thinks idly. "The familiars seem to be maintaining minimum surveillance from the abandoned factory across from the western post. We know they're there, and we're pretty sure they're aware of our knowledge."

Mole nods agreement, "Yes, the general consensus is that they're just keeping an eye on us. We're aware of their presence; keep a close watch on that post just in case."

Watching. Familiars. And it all comes back to Ames White. She can't escape him; he's everywhere. Haunting her thoughts every moment of every day. She slipped once, a couple days ago, she mentioned in an argument with the quartermaster that she was thinking of White all the time. The other woman assumed she meant as a threat to be protected against, a logical assumption, but Max knows she's getting close to the edge. Because there's nothing logical about the way she thinks about Ames White.

At her daily security briefing Max is having trouble concentrating on what Fil, today's presenter, is saying about a new anti-transgenic group. She shoves White away into the back of her thoughts and tries vainly to focus.

"They're a quasi-religious group," Fil is saying, "They take their inspiration from a passage in the bible." He reaches behind him and comes up with a battered and ancient copy of the Holy Bible. He reads aloud from a previously marked passage. "Matthew 5.5: Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth." Fil puts the bible aside, Max wonders where the hell he found one in this dump, and returns to his briefing. "They believe that the genetically superior plan to dupe the rightful masters of the earth, themselves, of course, into destroying themselves before taking over the planet and multiplying, spreading our unholy genes to the entire world population.

"Wow," says Al, another of Mole's lieutenants, "our own Holy War, complete with psychos. Aren't we special."

"Actually," says Fil, "they hate the Familiars too. They're not anti-transgenic, they're anti-genetic superiority. If that makes any sense."

Max wants to slam her head into the table, why does everything have to come back to White? What the hell is wrong with this world?

"Alright," Mole says, "we'll keep an eye on any Meek activity." Everyone, except Max who is still internally berating herself, laughs at the name. "In the mean time," Mole continues, "try to ascertain whether the Familiars know anything. If they hate us both maybe we'll be able to work out an information sharing principle, if the Meek appear to pose a serious threat." He turns to his commander, "Max, any questions?"

Max looks up sharply, startled. "Uhh, yeah." Max hits herself upside the head a couple of times to clear her thoughts, "Yeah. What, if anything, is the assumed strength of these 'Meek' people?"

Fil nods at her, "Good question, ma'am. Rudimentary intelligence places their strength at around 500 members here in Seattle, only personal handguns that we're aware of so far, no heavy weaponry."

Max nods back, distractedly, "Well, that's good, at least." She stares off into space for a minute, it looks like she's putting the information together, trying to see if she has anymore questions, but actually her brain has been hijacked by the thought of making a deal with Familiars and she's currently lost in a fairly explicit daydream involving White and a locked storage closet. She comes quickly back to herself when Fil clears his throat. "Uhh, yes, that will be it, thank you all."

As the meeting breaks up, people give her odd, sidelong looks. Max doesn't notice them; she's too busy being disgusted with herself over White to pay any attention to her surroundings.

* * *

Three days later, and Max is running from White. At least she's lost the four other men he had with him; being only human they were left behind long ago. She hadn't planned on this little confrontation; she was only going to be outside the walls of Terminal City for an hour or so. She's been going stir crazy. But she took a fall when someone cut her off, and one of the annoyingly numerous bystanders tipped to her barcode. White was on her in under ten minutes. 

He'll be on her again very soon if she doesn't lose him; as much as she hates to admit it, White is faster than she is, mostly due to his longer stride rather than his genes, but the result is the same. Not that his genes are passive; Max leaps across a street, two stories up, onto the roof of a neighboring building and White is right behind her. Unfortunately, their actions do not go unobserved.

"This is getting a little boring, 452." He shouts, he's not even breathing hard.

Max jumps over a ledge and swings down to the next floor, finding herself in a parking garage. White has followed.

"Come on," he shouts again, "mix it up a little." They're playing a high stakes game of tag in the dark, among the cars. He hasn't tried to get a shot off the entire time, probably because there's no challenge in it.

Max dodges around someone's SUV, wondering idly where the hell they get the gas to run it, and runs straight into the business end of an aluminum baseball bat.

White is close enough behind her that he sees her go down. "Hey," he shouts, "you are interfering in an FBI investi-" he cuts off, suddenly, because the friends of the man with the baseball bat step out from the surrounding cars and open fire on him. He gets lucky; they're no marksmen, and White ducks back behind the hood of a nearby vehicle to return fire.

Max, meanwhile, is slowly dragging herself upright. That bastard had a really powerful swing. Her actions are noticed and one of the attackers, whom Max has guessed are a bunch of anti-transgenics, shoves a foot into her stomach to pin her back to the ground.

"Transgenic scum," he snarls at her, "lay still and maybe we'll make it painless."

Max grabs his foot, throws him off, and jumps to her feet only to be accosted by several others. How many of these fruitcakes are there?

White is still attempting, in the middle of a firefight, to convince the attackers that, as a federal agent, they really shouldn't be fucking with him.

"You are all gonna be up against the fucking death penalty!" He shouts, ejecting the empty clip from his Glock nine and replacing it with a fresh one.

"Even the arm of man's law harbors evil, you genetic freak!" One of the opposing gunmen takes the time to shout back, before rejoining the fray.

"You got it all wrong!" White is adamant. "I'm just as human as you are."

"Really?" One of them calls back, "Because I've never been able to leap tall buildings, you wanna explain that, freak?"

Max, still struggling with her own attackers, swears viciously. 'Meek' people. Haters of all genetically superior beings. They must have seen part of the chase; White won't be able to talk his way out of this one.

He doesn't try. He fires twice into the open space between banks of cars, Max can't see anyone there, but apparently he's a pretty good shot because she hears two answering screams. White breaks free from the pinned position and advances fast on the cadre of shooters, still firing. His luck runs out just about then because one of the biggest men Max has ever seen throws himself on top of White. The Familiar doesn't go down, but in the handful of seconds it takes him to dispatch the man, Max hears the revving of a car engine. White throws the man off him just in time to get hit with half a ton of Ford Explorer, doing about 50 milesan hour. He's thrown off into the sidelines, unmoving.

Max doesn't think he's dead; she's seen White get run over before, he was up and fighting a good fifteen seconds later. She uses the momentary distraction as the Meekers all peer at White apprehensively to jump over a car and make a run for the emergency stairs. At that, she almost makes it. The majority of the Meekers have gone to the other side of the garage to deal with something, maybe the cops, and Max's break goes unnoticed long enough to let her get within five feet of the stairwell.

"Freeze, freak." It's one of the Meekers, a handgun trained steadily on her. "Now," he says, a little shakily, "you will reap your eternal reward."

In the barest instant before he pulls the trigger, Max hears two gunshots. The man, boy really, slumps to the ground, revealing White. He's leaning against the nearest car, his handgun still trained on the would-be shooter, breathing hard. He may not feel pain, but his body has limits.

They stare at each other for a suspended moment, and then the sound of returning Meekers breaks the tension. White half turns, looking over his shoulder at the running figures. Max looks too, there's about ten of them. Reacting purely on instinct, and maybe a little subconscious lust, Max reaches out, grabs White by the arm and pulls him into the stairwell with her. They slam the door and lean against it briefly, staring at each other.

Then, as one, they turn and hurry down the stairs. White has to shoot three more Meekers and a sector cop, but they make it into the nearest abandoned building without much trouble. When Max hears the pounding of footsteps behind them she drags White further into the building until she finds a door.

"In here!" She hisses to him, and when he hangs back, resisting, she tugs impatiently on the arm she still holds. Too far gone to argue, Ames White steps into the room with her, and pulls the door shut behind him with his good arm. Only then does Max turn to examine their surroundings. The room is only about eight feet by five, and the shelves on the walls hold rusted out cans of paint and cleaning supplies. In the corner where White has slumped onto a box are a ragged mop and a broom with only half a handle.

Outside, the haphazard search of the building is still on. Max can hear them calling to each other, very unprofessional, but effective enough that she can't sneak out.

'Great,' she thinks, 'trapped in a locked storage closet with Ames White. My dream come true.'

* * *

A/N: I have an idea for a next chapter, but that's about it. If you'd like to see this continued farther than that please let me know. And keep the suggestions coming, they're always appreciated. 


	4. chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, Aurora: I think you're right about White, but I kind of did that on purpose, leave me your email address next time and I'll tell you about it. Acb: Thanks again, I already mentioned I'm using one of your suggestions to write this chapter, and it's beginning to look like I'll be crediting you for the next one, too. SorrowReminisce and DaxisSteele: I'll talk to you guys on The Conclave or The Broken World. Thanks for all your help. Mahida: How did you know I read Laurell K Hamilton? Are you psychic or something? All reviews and emails are always welcome.

* * *

For the last three and a half minutes Max has been sitting on a bucket full of rusted out nuts and bolts listening to Ames White breathe. There's enough light filtering through the cracks around the door that she can see him, or could, if she was looking at him. Which she is making a profound effort not to. 

"Question, 452," White says from the opposite corner. "What the hell are we doing in this closet, remind me?"

Max glares at him. "We're hiding from the fifty or so armed religious fanatics out there who want to kill us both. If you meant, 'Why are we in this closet together?' I don't know. Temporary insanity on my part."

Glaring at him, unfortunately, involves looking at him, and now that she's not running for her life Max can see that his left shoulder hangs at a very odd angle.

"You all right?" She asks, already screaming obscenities at herself inside. "Shoulder looks a little weird."

White raises an eyebrow at her. She's always wanted to be able to do that. "Just a little banged up," he says, "you?"

"Didn't know you cared." Max tries to pretend that her kick-ass attitude has come back to her. Tries to pretend she's annoyed that he asked.

White sighs, tiredly. "Do I have to explain the whole 'enemy of my enemy' thing to you, again?"

Max is pissed at herself: she was trained better than this. She sighs, and gets up off her perch.

"I know I'm gonna regret this," she says, walking over to White, "but let me look at your shoulder. You're the one with the gun; I'd hate to have you incapacitated."

She stops in front of him, just out of arm's reach. White tilts his head and studies her. "You could take the gun," he says.

Max shakes her head. "Got a thing about guns. Plus, I haven't fired one since I was nine, probably not much good any more."

White is still looking at her like he's never seen her before. "Tell me why you don't like guns."

"Take your jacket off," Max counters.

After a little tense eye-contact, White puts his gun on a nearby shelf and stands to slip out of his suit jacket. Standing this close, Max has to look up at him. He's not very tall, but he's about four inches taller than she is; enough to make a difference. He lets the jacket fall to the ground; underneath he's wearing a dark, button down shirt, and a shoulder holster, no tie.

Max studies him for a moment; without the jacket she can tell that the shoulder is badly dislocated. "Need to lose the holster," she says, softly.

White nods, and glances down, working at his belt: the holster is impossible to slip off his shoulders, he has to take it off completely. The problem with that is that he can't get his belt unfastened one handed, and he can't bring his other arm around that far. Max swallows hard, and closes her eyes, saying a brief prayer.

"Let me get it." Her voice is soft, hesitant.

White looks up at her from his belt, surprised. He opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it again, without saying anything. He drops his hand, and stands still.

Very carefully not looking at him, Max reaches out slowly. Her hands are shaking as she tentatively slides the tail end of his belt out of the loops and works the clasp. Being this close to him brings back the half-crazed obsession of the last week. Max swallows again and forces her hands to stop shaking. She's undressed men before, why is this so…so…so not going there. Max takes a slow, deep breath.

Bad idea.

She can smell him now; a combination of sweat and clean skin and the plain soap he uses in the shower. Whatever aftershave he uses, it's nice. Max takes another slow breath, sliding his belt out of his belt loops and the loops holding the holster in place, trying to get the image of White, covered in soap, out of her mind.

She can feel him watching her, and when she gets his belt off and glances up at him he's studying her, a little confusedly. He doesn't say anything, and Max tries not to think about that, about why he isn't insulting her.

She sets his belt on the shelf, next to his gun, and turns back to him. They look at each other; a thousand unsaid things pass in that look, most of them confused. Max turns to his shoulder. It's ugly. Putting it back into place isn't going to be easy: Max's last field med class was fourteen years ago.

"This is gonna be painful," she warns him, casting a quick glance at his face.

White raises his eyebrows, a mocking comment obviously in mind, but still doesn't say anything.

"Oh." Max looks away. "Right. Never mind then."

She reaches out, and puts a hand lightly on the dislocated shoulder. She's never touched him when they weren't fighting, this is something entirely different. She feels her hands start to shake again, and she hopes White hasn't noticed. Her other hand slides up his arm to rest on his bicep, and he flexes slightly under her touch. Max fights the urge to smile; sometimes a male is a male is a male, no matter what his genes.

Her hands tighten a little in preparation, this won't be perfect, since she can't get her hand all the way around his bicep, but it should work. She glances quickly at him again. He gives her a look that quite clearly says, 'Get on with it.'

Max takes a slight breath, and twists his shoulder and arm simultaneously, shoving his arm back into place. It's not a smooth procedure, and Max gives a slight, internal wince. That had to hurt. She looks up at White again. His expression hasn't changed.

Familiars. How weird are they?

White looks away from his disturbingly intense study of her face to his shoulder. Max steps back away from him as he swings his arm, experimentally. He shrugs a couple of times, and then looks back at her, hesitating.

"Thank you," he says, quietly. He slips back into his holster and begins re-threading his belt through the loops.

Max forces herself to nod casually. "No problem."

But when she turns her back on him and walks over to her former seat, her hands are shaking so badly she's afraid to touch anything, and she's pretty sure she's sweating like crazy. Why White affects her like this she just doesn't understand.

* * *

They've been in the closet for just under four hours, according to White's watch, when Max hears the Meekers come back towards the hall the closet door opens into. White, apparently, hears them too because he looks at her and goes absolutely still. Several Meekers appear to have stopped just outside the closet to argue, one of them wants to go home, the others, unfortunately, want to keep searching. They want to eradicate the gene junk sleepers trying to gyp them out of heaven. 

'Religion,' Max thinks, 'that is some pretty weird shit.'

A moment later, she realizes that they're going to search the closet. Her eyes widen in panic and she looks frantically at White. He looks from the door to her, and then motions her over to him. Together, they crouch in the darkened corner. They're right next to the wall, about three feet from the door, partially hidden by the shelving. With any luck, the Meekers will open the door, shine the light in, look straight ahead, see nothing, and leave.

Thanks to a very weird miracle, that's exactly what happens. As the door opens, Max and White forget who they're with and draw closer together, pressing back against the wall, trying to get as far behind the shelving as they can. Apparently it works, because the Meekers don't shoot them.

Fortunately, they close the door behind them.

Unfortunately, they don't leave; they go back to searching the building.

When they've gone far enough away that it's safe to talk again, White says, "I'll make you a deal, 452."

Max, who has moved back into her own corner, looks at him, skeptically. "Whatever this deal is, my end of it involves you calling me Max."

A muscle tightens in White's jaw; it does very intriguing things to his face, and Max gives herself a swift, mental kick to get her brain back into gear.

"Fine," White says, after a moment of pained, internal struggle, "Max."

She raises her eyebrows at him, mocking. "I'm listening."

"A deal," White repeats, mostly to himself Max thinks. He looks straight at her.

"I translate the runes," he pauses, hesitating, and then says, after swallowing hard, "and you tell me if my son is still alive."

And Max can only stare at him, shocked.

* * *

A/N: Keep the reviews coming; they're what motivate me to stay up all night writing this inane crap. SorrowReminisce: Thanks for your help with the runes; I'll try opening a thread, that's a good idea. Everyone else: I need people's opinions, or knowledge, on what the runes on Max's body say. I haven't seen all of second season and I really need to know before I can write the next chapter. Okay, slight blackmail there. You can probably figure out where I'm going with this by now, but stick with me, I'll try to get a little more original. 


	5. chapter 5

A/N: Credit still goes to acb for the rune idea, and to SorrowReminsce and DaxisSteele for their help. Major credit goes to DaxisSteele for her great idea about Max's reply. Major credit also goes to SK for telling me her thoughts about the runes. Thanks again! I know absolutely nothing about the runes, everything in here is either made up or the idea/knowledge of somebody else. I took a lot of the rune translations from Daniel Parker's series Countdown. Okay, this is really hard. I am trying very hard to stay in character, so if I get a little OOC, please tell me!

* * *

_"I translate the runes…and you tell me if my son is still alive." _

There's not enough light in the room to see his eyes, but Max knows that even if she could see them, they wouldn't tell her anything. White is so good at hiding behind the double mask of Familiar-cum-federal agent that his eyes are almost completely inexpressive.

Max hesitates. To have the runes translated…

'If White knew that Ray was alive,' she thinks furiously, 'he would never stop looking for him.'

Keeping Ray out of White's hands has been one of Max's long term personal goals for a while now.

But the runes…

She raises her eyebrows at him, "Just the runes," she says, questioning, "Not the significance?"

White gives her a very small smile. "Just if he's alive. Not where he is."

Max hedges. "What if he's dead?"

White's humorless smile doesn't waver an iota, but his face hardens. "Deal still stands."

If she tells White that Ray is alive he will never stop looking for him. If she tells White that Ray is dead…

It will crush him.

Max doesn't know where that thought came from. Since when does she care about White's mental health? If she tells him Ray is dead, he will stop looking, and he will be crushed.

Shouldn't that be a good thing?

Max knows that she has gone soft. She might hate White, but she knows that he loves his son, and she can't do that to him. She should refuse.

But the runes…

"Alright," she tells him softly. "Deal."

* * *

There's a brief argument, and when it's over they've agreed that White's side of the deal comes first. 

White stands up, still over in the other corner of the room. He hasn't put his jacket back on and the sight of him standing in the shadows in his dark shirt and shoulder holster makes things low in Max's stomach clench.

She tells herself it's fear. But it isn't.

She drops her own jacket on top of the bucket she's been sitting on, her heart fluttering from some feeling somewhere between fear and desire.

White doesn't move. Hands in his pockets, he stands perfectly still, watching as Max walks toward him, pulling her long-sleeved shirt over her head. Underneath she's wearing a short, spaghetti strap tank top that Original Cindy talked her into buying once, long ago. She leaves it on, figuring White can read around it; the thought of being half-naked around him is just too much to handle.

She stops in front of him, and his eyes drop to the runes that cover her chest and arms.

"Alright," he says, after a moment. "You want the gist of it or the pseudo-biblical bullshit literal translation?"

Max glares at him. "Literal."

White puts his hands lightly on her shoulders, turning her slightly into the light that spills through the cracks around the door.

"Death will court her- tempting her with its dark sleep. While the demon assumes human form, walking among the righteous and the wicked," White reads off the inside of Max's left arm. He looks at her, questioning.

"I'll remember." Max says, "Go on."

He sighs, and continues, lifting her arm to read the rest of the runes that continue across her chest. "Freed from false hopes, with a need to wreck vengeance upon her enemies. And the earth shall again bask in a fleeting glow."

White turns her again, moving onto her right arm. His hands are strong and callused, the feel of them gliding along her skin makes Max shiver, and she hopes he'll mistake it for a reaction to the runes.

"The demon bides its time in a hidden place, and rules from an invisible throne. The demon will command its servants to lead the seers into temptation. To break their will, to cloud their vision. And the servants of the demon will destroy the seers."

Demon. There was never any mention of a demon in anything Logan could dig up about the Familiars. But the thought of Logan makes Max feel incredibly guilty, she doesn't know why. It's not like she arranged to be stuck in a closet with Ames White's hands on her.

But telling herself that doesn't make her feel any less guilty. So she stops thinking of Logan, and tries to focus on what White is telling her; she has to remember all this, no matter how little sense it makes.

White has turned her around completely. Max hears him swallow hard before he very slowly, very gingerly, moves one of the tank-top straps aside.

"The meek will inherit the earth, for the consequences of all lives are sacred…bullshit." He pauses. "That last bit was me, in case you couldn't tell."

"Yeah," Max retorts, "I figured as much."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence as White hesitates again. "I need to…umm…"

She's never heard him talk like this before. "Go ahead," she says, very softly.

He very gently slides his hands up from the base of her spine, lifting the back of her shirt out of his way as he goes. Max can feel his breath on the back of her neck, the hesitation in his touch. Her breath goes shallow as he edges the top up far enough to see the last of the runes.

His breathing is none too steady either. "When the shroud of Death covers the earth," he says, his voice both deeper and softer than usual, making Max's spine shiver, "the one who's power is hidden will deliver the helpless…that would be you, I suppose."

Max has to try three times before she can speak. "You again?" Her voice is husky and low. She wants to kick herself.

She wants him to keep touching her.

Fortunately for both of them, he doesn't. He pulls her shirt back down, covering up the runes again. He pauses, his fingers lingering at the small of her back, and then takes a step backward, away from her.

Max turns to face him.

"Me again," he agrees.

They stand there for another eternal moment, staring at each other. Somehow, someway, their relationship has changed. Max swallows hard, and steps around him to get her shirt.

"45...," he stops. "Max?"

The sound of her name on his lips gives her a strange, secret thrill. She turns, pulling her shirt back over her head.

"My son?" His face is tense. Whether from worry over Ray or worry over her integrity, Max doesn't know.

"Right." Max studies him for a moment. Yes or no. Yes or no.

Truth or lie.

"The last time I saw him," she hears herself say, "he was alive, but weak, still fighting the effects."

This isn't true. The last time she saw Ray he was bouncing off the walls, waiting for Logan to take him to his aunt, so they could get the hell away from Seattle. But she can't tell White that. If only to reassure herself that she hasn't fallen for him completely.

White's expression is a mixture of relief and despair. "If the effects hadn't left by then…" she hears him murmur to himself.

He shakes his head briskly, and looks straight at her. "How do I know you're telling the truth about Ray?"

Max gives the look right back, fighting the vague sense of guilt creeping up on her. "How do I know you didn't make all that demon crap up?"

White's expression edges back toward despair. "Good point," he concedes, softly. "At least there's still a chance…"

And standing in a darkened storage closet, surrounded by enemies, watching another enemy slide towards the dark pit of desperation, Max feels like the greater of two evils.

Any two evils.

* * *

A/N: Don't count on me doing anything with the runes unless overwhelming pressure forces me to turn this into a novel. They were never intended to be part of the plot; I just wanted to give White an excuse to get his hands on Max. Once again, the runes mean nothing, they were either taken from SK who got them God-knows-where, or taken from Daniel Parker's Countdown series, or made up off the top of my twisted little head. 


	6. chapter 6

A/N: acb: silly girl! (I'm just assuming you're a girl here, forgive me.) I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with the demon stuff, it just sounded so good I had to put it in. Other parts of the prophecies from Countdown would have worked better, stuff about the "Chosen One" and such, but I don't have all of them. (If anyone does know where I could find the text of the prophecies from Daniel Parker's Countdown series that would be greatly appreciated.) In response to the rest of your review (thank you for the review, BTW, it's always good to hear from you): I'd like to know more of White's thoughts on Max too, the problem is, I suck at writing from a man's point of view…proof once again that I really don't understand men. Mahida: Sorry! How was I supposed to know it was you? Alright, so you gave me a big hint, you know I'm oblivious!

* * *

They've been in the closet for almost six hours, and it's getting tiresome. They haven't spoken since the deal, except when White occasionally asks her if she can still hear the Meekers in the rest of the building. His hearing is good enough to pick up every sound the guards at the end of the hall make, but the Meekers farther out than that are beyond his range. 

Every time he asks, she says yes.

They're still out there.

"Christians," White sighs. "They never fucking know when to quit."

Max smiles slightly, distracted. She's still not entirely sure she did the right thing in telling White that Ray might have died from the test. She would be sure, ordinarily. She was trained to deceive the enemy, after all. It's just logical.

So why does she feel so guilty?

Lost in her own thoughts, Max has stopped listening for the Meekers, so it's White who hears them first. He holds up a hand for her attention, and they both freeze perfectly still, listening.

"Alright," one of the Meekers who seems to be in charge is saying, "Alpha team will stay here and occupy the building, teams Beta and Gamma will spread out to search the surrounding buildings, we know at least one of them was hurt," White snarls silently, "Teams Delta and Epsilon go back to base, get some rest. We'll rotate teams in and out until we find them."

There's a general lifting of spirits in the hall, the majority of the Meekers are tired of this search. Max and White look at each other; tired enemies are good enemies.

As the Meekers mill around out in the hall, White motions her closer.

"Less guards," he murmurs to her, "decent shot at making it out without further injury."

Max rolls her eyes at him. She's already thought of this. White glares back and they both move to crouch near the door, waiting until the sounds of voices and footsteps fade enough that the hall is probably clear before easing the door open and slipping out.

* * *

Max strangles one Meekers guard into unconsciousness, and White breaks the necks of the two covering the door, but otherwise they make it to the outside without major incident. 

For some reason, the possibility of splitting up, or turning on each other, hasn't occurred to either of them. They're working together.

They bothtry very hard not to think about that.

Once they hit the street, however, their little streak of luck goes sideways with severe consequences.

They've managed to reach a part of the sidewalk where traffic is light, but there are still people around to blend with. Not that White blends particularly well in his three hundred dollar suit and Italian shoes.

At least he's not wearing a tie.

Unfortunately, there are a few Meekers wandering through the alleyways, looking carefully at all the people. This wouldn't be much of a problem, except that the three Meekers working their way through the crowd towards the edge where Max and White stand, were part of the little scuffle in the parking garage.

So they all know who they're looking for.

Max was only a soldier for the first nine years of her life, but she's been trained for this. She knows several solutions to this scenario, and right off the top of her head she can think of one that would work perfectly. White probably knows it too; if he was trained to work undercover, by the NSA or by the Conclave, he'll know what she's thinking.

Which is probably why he's not looking at her.

After a moment of watching the Meekers slowly work their way closer, White sighs. "No way out of here without going past them," he says, reluctantly.

Max and White look at each other.

"No real alternative," he says, almost apologetically.

Max swallows hard, and nods decisively at him.

They move slowly into the entrance of the dead-end alley that opens onto the street, never taking their eyes off each other. Max wonders if her face is as apprehensive as White's, and decides it probably is. What the hell is she doing?

Max cuts off the thought. The only way she'll be able to do this, is if she doesn't think about it. Doesn't think about what they're about to do.

White squares his shoulders, as if preparing to walk straight into a barrage of machine gun fire, and backs her up against the wall.

He puts one hand lightly on her hip, and stops, staring at her. His eyes are wide and a little confused, and so are hers, but Max lifts her chin, and White tilts his head, and he kisses her.

It starts out as just a ploy to fool the Meekers: a business executive with a wife and a family back in the suburbs fooling around with a local girl, nothing to be suspicious of.

It doesn't stay that way.

She doesn't intend to, but Max finds herself arching into the kiss, and White shifts the angle slightly, and slides one hand into her hair to hold her head in place, and Max opens her mouth under his.

The first brush of his tongue sends shock waves through both of them. Suddenly the kiss is harder, deep and hot, and they're crushed together, not a centimeter between them anywhere.

White bites her lip and Max, entirely unthinking, moans into his mouth and slides her hands up along his back to hook over his shoulders.

It's not just a ploy. It's something much, much more, and it goes on too long.

When they finally come up for air, they can only stare at each other, completely shocked. It's like time has suddenly started up again, and they've suddenly remembered who they are, and who they're with. It's a frozen moment of utter and absolute disbelief.

Max breaks first.

"Have they passed?" she asks, without taking her eyes off White's face.

It takes him a moment to process what she's saying.

"About ten minutes ago," he says finally.

They go back to staring, both of them struggling to find something to say, some way to explain this. Then they break apart suddenly and start walking with forced casualness toward the sector checkpoint.

* * *

For once in Max's life, the sector checkpoint is not a delay. White flashes his FBI identification and the cops fall all over themselves to cooperate. 

They duck behind a building when a pair of young men pass by, walking like they're armed and wearing shirts with "Revelations 22:20" printed on the front.

They aren't seen, and when the men have gone on down the street White turns to her and says, "Well, it's been fun. As always."

Max doesn't wonder about why he isn't trying to capture her. She needs some time away from him, away from everyone, too. She has to get her head on straight. What did she just do?

She just made out with Ames White in an alleyway. And it was good.

She gives herself a swift, mental kick to the head for that thought.

Someone calls her name, hissing with urgency, and Max turns and stares across the street to find Alec and two X-6's with an old army truck. Trust Alec to come looking for her.

He motions to her, urgently. They have to get out of the sector and back to Terminal City before the next sweep. Max signals him to wait a minute, and turns to look at White, to see what his plans are.

She shouldn't have bothered. He's gone.

* * *

A/N: I've got a vague idea of where this is going now, but suggestions and ideas (if you don't feel like writing them yourself) are always welcome. Hopefully, unless something drastic goes wrong, chapter seven should be up by Sunday. 


	7. chapter 7

A/N: Nevanroy: I forgot to mention it in the last author's note, but your review made my day. It's one thing when fans of a pairing like your story, but when someone who isn't really a fan likes it, that's ten times better. Thank you so much. Aurora: I've never seen The Saint, so I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm glad you liked it☺! Acb: good to know I'm not alone! Glad you thought it was exciting, I was getting bored with them hanging around in a closet for three chapters! Okay, I'm going to try to write a little from White's POV because a lot of people have asked for it. I've never done this successfully before so…we'll see what happens.

* * *

Special Agent Ames White has the junior agent who picks him up drop him back at headquarters. When he walks into the bullpen Otto looks up from the report he's reading, the agent seems to have a sixth sense occasionally; one that tells him when his boss enters a room, or when he's pissed off. White has noticed it before; he thinks it's probably why Otto has advanced so fast: he seems so intuitive. Usually White is slightly impressed by it, today it pisses him off. He suppresses the urge to snap at Otto, he has no legitimate reason to be upset with him, and it's best not to give the agent a reason towonder about him. 

"Something go wrong, sir?" Otto seems more curious than concerned, he's accustomed to White doing things his own way.

White walks over to the desk that is vaguely considered his; he rarely uses it, and picks up the top report on the pile.

"Nothing serious, Otto," he tells the other man calmly. "A bunch of idiotic vigilantes screwed up the chase."

He turns to look at him, and continues, "I really hate civilians."

Otto gives him a purely mechanical smile, "Yes, sir."

White goes back to the report, something about a murder that was possibly committed by a transgenic, mostly supposition. He moves onto the next report: a supply depot broken into, maybe by transgenics. It's all crap, and nothing he wants to deal with right now.

He cracks his neck, tired and stiff from sitting in a storage closet for six hours with – he cuts the thought off: he really doesn't want to think about that.

Otto calls for his attention, providing a welcome distraction from the direction his thoughts were heading.

"Sir," he says, "take a look at this."

White comes around his desk to look over his shoulder, it's an intelligence report on a group of anti-transgenics, some radical Christian group, nothing really impor-

Radical Christians.

Meekers.

A red haze obscures White's vision for a moment. He struggles to get back under control when he realizes Otto is speaking.

"Sir? Sir is something wrong?"

White clears his throat. "These people," he says calmly, "are the group that interfered with the chase today."

Otto makes a thoughtful noise, something he's particularly good at, and nods in what White supposes is intended to be an agreeing manner.

"They're not strictly anti-transgenic, sir," Otto continues, "They believe that only normal humans should be allowed to exist."

"So?" White demands, although he's pretty sure he knows where this is going.

"So they condone action against that breeding cult that was exposed a couple of months ago," Otto pauses, searching his memory, "the Family?"

"The Familiars," White corrects him. "Nothing illegal about selective breeding, Otto. Nothing at all."

That muckraking idiot Eyes Only put up a cable hack about them back in September, including how to identify one. A lot of powerful people are now calling for action against the man. White wants him dead, for more reasons than just that one.

"Yes, sir. Just thought I'd mention it."

White nods, distractedly. The Conclave probably already knows about this, but maybe he should send a message anyway. These people, these "Meekers", could become a problem.

He glances down at Otto, "Well, keep an eye on any activity, the government frowns on vigilantism, these people would do best to remember that."

Otto nods again, "Will do, sir."

White puts the report down and walks out to his car. He slides into the driver's seat, puts the key in the ignition, and stops.

Ray might still be alive.

The fragile hope that thought creates in him is something he hasn't experienced in a very long time.

His son might be alive.

Of course, he also might be dead.

White sighs, refusing to dwell on that. He's tired, and after the events of today, he doesn't think he'll be able to get to sleep. He doesn't actually need to sleep; his body doesn't require it, but it's a habit he's become accustomed to.

He leans back against the seat, stretching his arms above his head, feeling his left shoulder protest the motion.

His shoulder.

Max.

He sits upright again, disgusted. Where the hell did that come from? The freak's name is 452.

Except he's having trouble thinking of her lumped in with the rest of the transgenics. Even before today he always thought of her as different, special. He told himself it was because of her flawless DNA, because, technically, she was different.

After the events of today he's having to accept the thought that maybe there was more to it than that.

Maybe there _is_ more to it than that.

His mind runs away with him, conjuring up the feel of her hands on his shoulders and the taste of her mouth, and the way she arched into him…

White slams his head against the steering wheel.

This is bad.

It's really too bad that his genetic makeup prevents him from getting drunk enough to forget anything, he desperately wants to forget the last six and a half hours.

Or so he tells himself.

* * *

Max gets back to Terminal City to find that everyone's been worried about her, or at least wondered if she was alright. Alec is pestering her for answers, but that's Alec's main mode of operation and Max ignores him. 

"I'm fine," she tells everyone who asks, "I just had to lay low for a while."

She calls a security briefing and tells Mole and Alec and Logan that the Meekers pinned her in an abandoned building for a few hours, and that at least a few of them know what she looks like.

She doesn't mention White. She doesn't think they'll understand.

She doesn't even understand.

Original Cindy asks if she can stay the night; she doesn't want to ride home in the dark and the rain. Max tells her, of course she can stay, and she's always welcome.

Inside, Max knows she really wanted some time alone.

She sits down on the window sill, staring out at the ruin of Terminal City, thinking about today.

About herself.

About White.

She doesn't know what the hell is going on in her life anymore. What about Logan? What about her people? What about Ray?

Ray.

The guilt is almost overwhelming. Why the hell does she feel bad about telling White his son might be dead? He's certainly earned a little pain by killing her people! He'd kill them all if he could find a way, and in no way does he deserve her pity.

So why does she feel like such a horrible person?

She's still sitting there when Original Cindy comes in to tell her that Mole says there's a phone call for her in the CIC.

* * *

A/N: Well, that totally ran away from me! I really only intended to write about a page from White's POV, but my plot bunny completely sucked me under! So, there you go, everyone who asked for it, White's thoughts about some stuff. Maybe I'll write more if you tell me it's good. Like I said, I've never had any success writing from a man's POV before…and maybe I still haven't. Let me know what you think. Oh yeah, in response to those who asked, I'm probably not going to bring Ray into this at all, I don't really like children. 


	8. chapter 8

A/N: acb: thanks for the feedback, and thank you for reviewing every chapter, I don't consider a chapter to be any good until you review it!...that sounds kind of weird, but don't worry: I'm not stalking you, or anything like that. I just value your opinion. I've always thought I didn't use enough dialogue. You think that's a good thing, huh? Maybe so. Sorry, but this one has a lot of dialogue. BTW, everyone: I'm sorry if I come off as disliking Alec, I love Alec, but he's not the focus of this story. Sorry to everyone that wanted White to be calling, that was my original intention, but, like I said, the last chapter ran away from me, so I couldn't make it work logistically.

* * *

In the CIC, there's a man on the other end of the line. 

"You don't know me," he says when Max picks up; "My name is Richard Sullivan. I am a Familiar."

For a brief moment, Max sees red. Almost a month without a word of Familiars, and suddenly, just when she really, really doesn't want to think about them, _they call her on the fucking telephone! _

"What. The. Hell. Do. You. Want?" Max forces the words out past the rage tightening her throat. About this point Alec notices that, from her reaction, the call probably isn't personal, so he picks up the other receiver, putting his hand over the mouthpiece to listen.

The Familiar on the line sighs, "I don't like this any more than you do, commander. I was ordered to contact you."

Max closes her eyes for a moment, trying to cling to the last vestiges of her patience.

"I'll repeat myself since it seems that 5000 years of inbreeding has, sadly, produced a profound lack of brain cells. What do you want?"

"We want," Richard Sullivan growls, "to facilitate an exchange of information about a common enemy."

Alec shoots her a look, Max blinks at the phone, too tired to be surprised.

"You want to talk?"

"About the Holy Brotherhood for the Defense of the Meek, yes."

"The Meekers."

Sullivan sighs, "If you prefer."

Max smiles, "Little Holy War got you guys worried? Would have thought you'd be prepared for this." She's grinning all out now, and not really sure why this is so amusing, "I mean, religious discrimination is hardly anything new, especially when you're a freaky snake cult a couple of thousand years old."

She can hear Sullivan gritting his teeth.

"Will you accept our offer of parley, or not?"

Max raises her eyebrows at Alec, asking for his opinion. He hesitates, and then nods.

"We'll accept," she tells Sullivan, "How do you want to do this?"

"I'll have the highest ranking Familiar in the area contact you," Sullivan says, sounded a little relieved, "Please leave this line open and have someone waiting."

Alec makes a flurry of hand signals at her, and Max nods, asking, "Who's the local chief?"

Sullivan pauses, and Max and Alec can hear him shuffling papers, "Ames White," he says, apologetically, "That should be interesting, shouldn't it?"

Max holds back a burst of hysterical laughter.

This _can't_ be happening to her.

Alec seems to sense her impending hysteria because he tells Sullivan they'll monitor the line, and puts his receiver down.

"Max," he says gently, "are you okay? You look a little…strange."

Max has a maniacal grin on her face; she can feel it, but can't seem to do anything about it, maybe she's in shock.

"Put someone on the line," she orders distractedly, "and send for me when he calls."

When White calls.

Ames White.

Max turns and hurries from CIC: she can't handle any questions right now; she needs to go slam her head against something hard for a while. She needs to get ahold of herself.

* * *

She makes it back to her quarters in record time, without any memory of the journey. The phone call wasn't that surprising: she was almost expecting it. The identity of the contact wasn't a huge shock either. It's just the culmination of all the events of today. 

She just can't take it any more.

She's forgotten that Original Cindy is staying with her. The moment she walks in her friend can tell something's wrong.

"Boo? Hey, Max!"

Max looks up quickly, surprised at her presence.

"Girl, what the hell happened to you? You look like…I don't even have a comparison for what you look like, what happened?

Max shakes her off. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

She isn't buying it. "Girl, Original Cindy wasn't born yesterday. I know when my boo's got something nasty on her mind." She puts her hands on Max's shoulders, her expression suddenly kind. "I am always here for you, you know that. Now, straight up, what's the dealio?"

Max looks at her in desperation. She knows that Original Cindy would let her brush it off this time, but she also knows that the woman won't give it up. Eventually, she's going to have to level with her best friend.

She takes a slow, shaky breath. "You remember how I said the Meekers pinned me and I had to lay low for a while."

Original Cindy nods. "You were gone for, like, seven hours, boo, 'course I remember."

Max swallows hard, looking at the floor, the kitchen table they're sitting at, anything but her friend's face.

Original Cindy frowns. "There more to the story than that?"

It's so damn hard to open up. OC is probably the only person who could possibly understand even a little, but it's still so damn hard.

"They were able to pin me because I was distracted."

She takes another deep breath.

"I was running from White and four of his evil minions."

Original Cindy smiles. "That man needs a new hobby."

Max still isn't looking at her.

"Anyway," she continues, "You know how the Meekers hate Familiars too?" Off Original Cindy's nod she says, "Well, White and I ended up helping each other out." She hears the slight intake of breath that is the only outward indication that OC is surprised, but doesn't stop. "And then we sorta ended up hiding…together."

OC nods, slowly. "That isn't what's bothering you, though." Max shoots her a surprised look, and she says, "Original Cindy just knows these things."

"We, umm. We made a deal."

She tells OC about the runes, and the translations. She doesn't mention her reaction.

"My side of the deal," she continues, slowly, "was telling him whether Ray was alive or not."

OC raises her eyebrows. "That was it."

Max nods. "That was it. Thing is, I kinda let him think that maybe he was dead. Which he isn't."

"So, in other words, you lied to the man."

Max squirms, guiltily. "Well, yeah. I mean, I was trained to. But, OC he…he really took it hard and…"she stops, still struggling with her reaction too much to explain it.

"Yeah, boo? And what?"

"Promise you won't…tease me?"

"Absolutely girl. You got Original Cindy's word on that."

"And I…I feel bad about it, OC. I feel like a horrible person. Which makes _no_ sense because he is, like, ten million times worse as a person…at least, from my experience he is."

Original Cindy puts an arm around her best friend as she starts to cry. "Sugar, you done nothing wrong. That man deserves a little anguish, and besides which, it ain't like his kid is _actually_ dead! You just given him something to think on."

"That doesn't help!" Max swipes a hand across her face, still mildly disgusted at the thought of crying over Ames White. "I've been running through all the practical reasons for doing it, hell, that's why I lied to him in the first place! It isn't helping."

She pulls away and walks toward the window.

"I still feel like I did wrong."

Original Cindy joins her at the window. "Sometimes doing the right thing hurts. It's a fact of life, boo. Ain't nothing you can do but come correct with yourself, and live with what comes from it."

Her words don't help, but the way she lays her head on Max's shoulder and stands with her does. Max still feels guilty, but she's beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she can live with it for a while.

Of course, whether she'll still think that when she's face to face with White, is another thing entirely.

* * *

A/N: Okay, yeah, I know, no White in this chapter…sorry! Next time, I promise. BTW, I've kinda got another Dark Angel (Max/White) story in mind…I will finish this one, I mean, I have a PLAN! But, you guys would forgive me if I posted another story on Thursday instead of chapter 9, right? Let me know. 


	9. chapter 9

A/N: acb: thank you so much for the feedback, I actually go back and read scripts from first season to get Max's and Original Cindy's "voices" right, so it's nice to know that it works. Thanks to everyone, sorry this took so long; I had a bunch of one-shots crowding my mind…I still do, but I decided I had to get this finished.

* * *

White is still awake when his phone rings. It's two o'clock in the morning. 

"From my ancestors," says the man on the other end when he picks up. "For my children's children."

White has been drinking single malt scotch since he got home eight hours ago. Fortunately, he's biologically incapable of getting drunk.

"From my fathers before me," he replies after a heartfelt mental sigh, "for my sons."

"This comes directly from the Elders. You are the senior Familiar in the area. They require a service."

White listens carefully. If this guy was on the Conclave, he would probably recognize the voice.

"Who the fuck is this?" He can't get drunk, but after eight hours of steady drinking his control might be a little iffy.

The man sounds a little pissed now. "Look, White, I just got off the phone with that transgenic bitch so I'm not in a great mood right now. I apologize for my disrespect, but could you cut the crap?"

White sits bolt upright, shock reverberating through his scotch-drenched nerves. "With _who_?"

The man sighs. "My name is Richard Sullivan. Will you permit me to explain?"

White lets the quality of his silence speak for him.

"An organization has come to our attention. The Holy-"

White cuts him off. "The Meekers."

Sullivan pauses, startled. "What?" White demands. "Did you think maybe I hadn't noticed the idiots?"

"N-no," Sullivan stutters, "It's just-, that's what 452 called them."

White forces down the anger threatening to overwhelm him.

She is taking over his life.

The scent of her skin comes back to him. The feel of her hands threading through his hair.

He pours another two fingers of Scotch.

"Do you have a point?"

"Ahh, yes. Yes, the conclave has decided that it is in our best interests to exchange information on these alleged saviors of human kind with the transgenics in a collaborative fashion."

Having spent the last eight years working for a bureaucratic government, White has no trouble understanding Sullivan's point.

"You want to share with the freaks?"

"We want _you_ to share with the freaks."

"I see." That should go over well.

"That should make 452 happy. I've only been trying to kill her and hers for the last year."

By the silence on the other end he can tell that Sullivan wants to say something. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"What is it?"

"Sir?"

White pauses, thinking. "She knows, doesn't she?"

"I'm sorry?" Sullivan is starting to piss him off. A lot.

He spells it out like he's talking to a four year old. A normal four year old.

"X5-452 knows that I am the senior Familiar in the area, and therefore the man she would be dealing with in this little exercise in… external cooperation."

He was going to say "exercise in inter-relations", but that made him think of 452 again. And exactly how far he had progressed in "inter-relations" with her.

Sullivan doesn't quite get it.

"Uhh, what? Sir?"

A normal, cognitively challenged four year old.

"Never mind. Why was this decision made? Have the Meekers become more of a problem than I was aware?"

"Yes, sir." Back on familiar ground now, Sullivan's answers come more assuredly. "While the Seattle branch of the…of the Meekers is fairly new, they have existed in other places around the world almost exactly since we were…revealed."

A familiar surge of anger at The Only Free Idiot burns its way down White's throat along with the scotch.

He forces himself to speak past the anger. "And there's reason to believe that the transgenic leadership has valuable information on the subject?"

"Yes, sir."

White sighs. On the list of things he really, really doesn't want to do right now, calling Max is right up at the top.

Wait a minute. _Her name is 452_. White gets up, taking the cordless phone into the master bathroom with him, and writes it on his mirror in a lip liner that Wendy left behind.

Her. Name. Is. 452.

"Alright," he tells Sullivan. "Is she expecting me to call, or what?"

"She's expecting your call, yes sir."

No way out of this. "Very good. I'll handle it from here." Dear gods, what has he gotten himself into? "Fe'nos tol."

"Fe'nos tol." Sullivan hangs up.

White stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment. He goes back down to his living room for the bottle of scotch.

Then he calls Otto for the number on the phone at Terminal City.

* * *

White calls forty minutes after Max hangs up with Sullivan. 

Alec comes to tell her himself.

"You gonna be okay with this, Maxie?"

When he started calling her "Maxie" she can't quite remember. She likes it, but she'd eat her own shoes before she told him that.

"I'll be fine."

White is professionally detached on the phone, and with the ever-serious Fil listening in they get through the set-up parameters with a minimum of insults. The call is short, and efficient, and Max is even beginning to think she might get something useful out of this little exchange.

There is nothing in the phone call to make her break into his house.

But she does.

She waits an hour, pacing and fretting and trying to talk herself out of it. She's not sure if he needs to sleep, but it's late, or rather, it's early, and she figures if she's lucky he'll be asleep.

The house is dark when she gets there, no lights on anywhere. She remembers the cameras and slides around the siding to avoid them. She even avoids the reflective globe.

Max climbs a drain pipe and jimmies a window open, all in absolute silence, this may be the most perfect B&E she's ever done.

She slides in through the window, and then crouches on the floor, listening.

And she can hear someone breathing.

She gets up and walks across the room to a chair. It's the master bedroom, full bath, walk-in his and hers closets, and a bookshelf. On the bedside table are a clock radio, and a cell phone, and White's Glock nine.

She stays there for an hour and a half, watching him sleep, refusing to berate herself for enjoying the sight when he turns and the covers slide down to his waist. She allows herself this one, brief reprieve.

When he calls out for Ray, Max feels tears slide down her face. She sits there and cries silently as he tosses in his nightmares until the room lightens slightly and she knows dawn is coming.

And then, thinking he's probably an early riser, she slips back out the way she came, and walks four blocks to where she parked her motorcycle.

It's hard to drive with tears pouring down her face and guilt eating her away on the inside, but somehow she manages to get back to Terminal City.

Where she locks herself in her room and tries to figure out how she's going to get through this.

* * *

A/N: 'K so, tell me what you think. BTW, I'm going on the assumption that White is 35, he and Wendy were married for eleven years, and he did three years of law school before going into government service. Just in case you were wondering where I got those numbers. Umm…you guys know this can't end happily…right? 


	10. chapter 10

A/N: candygoddess: glad I could corrupt you! Like I've mentioned before, it's really encouraging to know that I've managed to turn someone on to something they'd never considered before. Thank you to everyone who gave me ideas, reviewed, or put up with my endless babbling. Aurora: thank you for the idea in your review of chapter nine. This chapter was going to be slightly different before I read that. Sorry it took so long, I got into Stargate:Atlantis, it was a terrible distraction.

* * *

White had tried to get the meeting held somewhere other than Terminal City, arguing that he shouldn't have to bring his people into transgenic home territory.

He didn't even try to use the biohazard as an excuse; he knew she was fully aware that the Familiars were immune.

Max won when she pointed out that he had called her, and while she didn't trust him even half as far as she could throw him, she was willing to go through with this.

He had choked down a few choice curses and conceded, so the meeting is set in one of the parking garages that surround Terminal City.

White enters first in his Agency-issue black Lincoln, four cars follow him in and he gets out.

Max has never seen him in anything other than a suit, but today he's wearing black jeans and running shoes and a polo shirt with the collar unbuttoned, flashing the tanned expanse of his throat under a leather jacket.

She wonders when he has time to tan, especially in Seattle, but that thought brings back the image of him shirtless, and then the taste of his mouth and the strength of his hands on her, and she cuts the thought off before she loses control completely.

He slams his car door and stands with his back to the approaching Familiars, his eyes finding her in the shadows.

"Let's do this, 452," he shouts in his broad voweled New York accent, "I don't like this anymore than you do, you know that."

"The name's Max," she snaps back at him as she steps out of the shadows.

His jaw tightens. "Let's do this, _Max_," he grits out between his teeth.

She glares back at him and raises a hand in a pre-agreed upon signal. Dix, Mole, and Fil step out beside her.

White looks at them, and then around them. "I'll just go ahead and assume that you've got this area covered with shooters."

Max gives him a very cold smile. "Like I said; I don't trust you."

He gives her an oddly thoughtful look as he turns to speak to the people he brought with him. "Feeling's mutual, Max."

* * *

Fil, Dix, and three of the five Familiars with White are the ones doing the talking. From what Max can hear standing on the sidelines, both sides are gaining a lot.

Good. It'd be nice to have some positive outcome from this little exercise in futility.

A call for her comes in over the radio, she holds down the transmitter, "Go for Max."

"It's Original Cindy," says Dalton, who has taken over CIC in Dix's absence, "She took a fall coming in and she looks pretty bad, I think the stuff around here has begun to affect her."

Max wavers, torn between protecting her people, and being with her best friend.

Finally she holds the transmitter down and says, "I'm coming in. Alec," she calls, turning to look into the shadows, "come take over."

He drops from a ceiling strut, swinging the rifle in his hands to hang on his shoulder. "Go ahead, Maxie," he says, "We'll handle it."

White watches her leave, but says nothing.

His silence worries her more than if he had spoken.

* * *

Original Cindy is adamant.

"Girl, please," she demands. "I'm _fine_. Go back, you know you're worried."

Max gives her a tight look, and keeps pacing.

Original Cindy sighs. "It ain't like I've never fallen off my bike before," she grumbles.

Max doesn't acknowledge her.

"Something wrong, boo?"

Still nothing.

"You're still all hung up on this White thing, aren't you?"

It isn't a question, and Max doesn't answer.

"It's aiight, girl. You know I've got your back in this."

Max stops pacing, and looks at her friend.

"What the hell is happening to me, OC?"

"What do you mean, sugar? What's up?"

Max sits down on the table next to her. "Nothing new," she admits. "I just"…she breaks off, and then finishes softly…"I feel awful, OC. I feel like, of all the bad things I've ever done, this ranks right up there with Ben, and Brin, and walking away from Logan. Am I crazy?"

"You're not crazy, girl." Original Cindy puts her arms around her friend. "You're just a little mixed up. Maybe you're starting over."

"Starting over?"

Original Cindy nods with her head still on Max's shoulder. "All the bad things you did, all the lies you told to protect you and yours, you're starting over fresh, making yourself a new woman."

Max snorts in laughter. "That's crazy."

Original Cindy gives her a serious look that goes oddly with her gentle smile.

"Just give it a shot, boo. Come correct with the man, straight up. You'll feel better, I promise."

She's uncertain. "You think so?"

"Well hell, sugar, if that don't work we're gonna havta get you some serious chocolate up here."

They laugh about that.

Original Cindy has never wanted Max to be happy more than she does now.

"I mean it, Max. Tell him the truth."

So she does.

* * *

She takes him outside Terminal City, into the no man's land between the gate and Seattle proper, and she tells him, straight up.

He stares at her, shocked, for an entire minute, during which she can't move, can't speak.

And then he shoots her.


	11. chapter 11

And they all live happily ever after.

Well, not really.

Max dies three days later.

They had gotten her a heart transplant from an X-5 killed in a raid, but it doesn't take. Dr. Sam Carr, who they called in to perform the transplant, says privately to Alec that Max just gave up. She stopped fighting.

She didn't want to live.

Alec takes over Terminal City a changed man. He's more like the soldier he was raised to be than ever.

When a group of anti-transgenics throw Molotov cocktails over the fence, Alec orders the sentries to fire into the crowd until they disperse.

Fifteen people are killed. He doesn't care.

Original Cindy tells him what Max told her about White. About how she couldn't live with herself after lying to him like that and didn't know why.

Alec doesn't care why.

He figures the Familiar must have broken her will somehow, driven her to despair, and so he has Ray killed in revenge.

He spray paints the address on the wall of the NSA Seattle headquarters, and the next day the man born as Ames Sandeman puts his government-issue Glock nine-millimeter automatic to his head, and pulls the trigger.

His last words are, "Forgive me, Max." But nobody hears them.

* * *

A/N: The End…Oh, come on! Like these two could have a happy ending!...cringes from angry feedback okay, I'm sorry, please stop yelling at me…It came to me in a bad mood, which I usually don't write in, but this was so clear in my mind that I just had to…sorry. You know what? They were never gonna happen. They are fundamentally opposites and only came together under great stress both from the situation and their own lives. It's a fucking tragedy; anything else would be completely OoC unless taken several years and a few life changing events into the future so get over it. (fumes angrily)… Okay, now I'm done. 


End file.
